


Aster

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 23:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7242349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tuor’s encouraged to approach Voronwë at a festival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aster

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Ficlet for this week’s [silmread](http://silmread.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Gondolin was beautiful in its day, but it’s hard to compare to Valinor, especially at festival, all draped in lanterns and flowers. They string overhead in alternating lines on wooden poles that Tuor himself helped erect before the evening darkness fell. Now the minstrels are in full bloom, music mingling with the rich scents of baking in the air—everything is perfect. Tuor can’t help but wonder, not for the first time, what he ever did to earn such a blessing. 

And then he turns again, Idril held fast in his hands, and sees another beauty over her shoulder. The dance has fixed them in place, bodies and glittering robes to every side, so Tuor’s gaze is given the chance to linger. He knew Idril would be _beautiful_ for the festival; he helped tie her golden hair up himself, and they shared their first drink, their first dance. But it’s been some time since he saw the elf that first lead him to all this. His gaze is frozen for it: perched delicately at the side of the clearing, back to a fruit-laden table, Voronwë watches his peers dance. Tuor is the only Man, the only one with dull, rounded ears, broader muscles and light stubble along his chin. Voronwë is like the others: delicate, fanciful, _gorgeous_. A crown of lush flowers encircles his black hair, the pink-white leaves tucked behind his elegantly tipped ears, his dark hands folded neatly at his front over his ocean-blue robes. His thin eyes and high cheekbones reflect the stars above, one hand lifting to lightly finger the braid that cascades thickly down his shoulder. He’s a vision, one Tuor twists to see even as the dance leads them around again, at least until Idril clears her throat.

Tuor turns back to her, flushing a tad red and frowning, though she grins mischievously. “He looks lovely,” she tells him. Her voice is washed away in the heady music, but he knows her lips well enough to understand what they spell out. “You should go to him.”

“It doesn’t seem fair,” he returns, even though she’s told him, time and again, that this is the way of things. At least, with elves. Once they landed here, in this seamless land with handsome faces everywhere they went, he let her go to others. But Tuor’s never had trouble sharing and only hesitates to disappoint her, doesn’t want to share something that should be _hers_. She laughs like he’s being silly.

“I have had you enough today, my love.” The dance brings them another two steps over, and he lifts his arm so she can spin beneath it, twirling right back into his arms with her yellow skirts flying in circles. Back up close to him, she insists, “We are in Valinor now, the lands of joy, where there are no worries.” There are _always_ worries. But she leans up on her toes to peck his cheek, and then turns to push him off towards the perimeter of the meadow, and when he looks back, his stunning wife has been swept into another’s arms.

The delight stays on her face as the dance continues. Tuor’s half surprised to find no jealousy in his chest—there never is. He trusts her to come back. It’s hard to begrudge her grin, so light in all the openness. Another pair of elves nearly knocks Tuor over, and it forces him to quickly march off the makeshift dance floor. 

He comes to Voronwë, who looks over at his footsteps, donning a small smile over rose-copper lips. His eyes rake once up Tuor’s form, done up in dress robes like the Eldar he now lives among. Voronwë greet quietly, “Tuor.”

Tuor means to reply in the same fashion, but instead finds himself saying, “You look beautiful.” Once it’s out, he doesn’t take it back. He means it fully, now eyeing all the little details—the sleek, swept-aside bangs and a stray strand caught in long lashes, the subtle design of Swan feathers in the embroidery along Voronwë’s collar, the tiny jewels woven into his hair. His smile stretches wider, indenting his cheeks and reaching his eyes.

While Tuor takes in all this and more, Voronwë asks with a hint of hope in his soothing voice, “Have you come to ask me to dance?”

Tuor wasn’t sure of it. But he is now and extends an arm, Voronwë laughing happily as he slips his own around it. Then Tuor’s wading back into the clearing, until they’re embedded in the middle. One hand takes hold of Voronwë’s long fingers, the other lands on Voronwë’s trim waist, and Voronwë lifts his free hand to Tuor’s shoulder. They step in to line with all the others, Voronwë’s grace making up for Tuor’s occasional missteps. Idril’s taught him to dance, but it doesn’t come quite as naturally as he wishes. It likely never will as much as it does to his wife and greatest friend. Voronwë’s warmth is similar in his arms, but the feel of Voronwë is different, his body a little taller, less shapely, skin far darker and countenance more even, more demure than his regal but playful wife. Both have different things to offer. Whenever Voronwë steps too close to him, Tuor’s breath hitches just as much, stomach clenching, mind reeling into other things. But he memorizes this moment. He thinks if he’d helped Voronwë dress the way he did Idril, he would have suggested water lilies for Voronwë’s crown. 

Perhaps next time. The song ends, flawlessly sliding into the next. Tuor intends to keep dancing, but pauses when Idril shows up at his side. “I am going riding,” she informs him, with a look in her eyes that tells him the exact purpose. To Voronwë, she says, “He is yours for the night.”

Before she can leave, Tuor catches her wrist to say over the music, “You are the best wife in all your race and mine.”

“And the dwarves, and the trees, and all others,” she laughs. Her hand slips fluidly from his, and then she’s disappearing in the pulsing crowd, leaving Tuor to wonder if he could ever have the good fortune of holding both at once.

For now, he’s drawn back to Voronwë by skilled fingers on his hip, turning him in with gentle force. He nods his acquiescence and lifts his hand to Voronwë’s shoulder, allowing the better dancer to lead. 

Voronwë sighs, “The line of the great Finarfin was always especially kind.” But his smile indicates that he always knew Tuor would come back to him eventually, one way or another. All the hardships in Tuor’s life seem to have been worth it for the ease with which he has everything he wants now. 

For another song, it’s just the two of them: the other dancers fade out to dull grey while Voronwë’s browns and blues and accents of white and pink fill Tuor’s vision, everything from the slightly spicy, slightly floral scent of him to the silk-smooth softness of his skin wildly vibrant. He fits in Tuor’s arms with a strange _rightness_ , and his eyes are easy for Tuor to drift away in. He remembers when they first met, Voronwë humble but helpful and simple, lovely company on the journey, when they stopped at the gates of Gondolin and Voronwë threw back his hood to new splendor, when Voronwë took him on a tour through Gondolin, showed him the fountain in the central square and the view from several balconies, when he cornered Voronwë in the shadows of a building after nightfall and wanted so badly to press their lips together.

But he never did, and their words were always soft-spoken, respectful. Tuor fell for Idril before they had a chance, and still Voronwë was by his side, and still Tuor was torn, and even when he confessed his guilt to his lover, she laughed and loved him. 

He should’ve gone to Voronwë then, but it’s easier here. And he’s grateful to the long lives of elves for it, that they seem to have given him, more so now that he lives in deathless lands. Perhaps it was worth the wait, to see Voronwë like this with fresh eyes. When the current song ends, Voronwë’s feet don’t prepare for the next.

He reaches up to cup Tuor’s face, and he brings Tuor forward, Tuor swiftly moving of his own accord. He kisses Voronwë with the chasteness of all their friendship.

And then he’s bending Voronwë back, both arms wrapped around him, tongue slipping into his mouth to trace _everything_ , their faces tight together and all of _Voronwë_ filling him. The kiss stretches and lasts, Tuor unwilling to let go, so that the dancers have to resume and simply weave around them.

By the time they straighten out again, Tuor’s nearly breathless. Voronwë’s smile consumes everything. As much as Tuor is enjoying savouring this night, he wants to sweep Voronwë right off the dance floor and make up for lost time out under the stars.

But Voronwë moves first and takes up their position again, this time leaning his head softly on Tuor’s shoulder. They move into the next dance, more perfect than anything a mere mortal’s life has any right to be.


End file.
